


When The Rain Comes

by honeyrosekisses



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood and Violence, Care of Magical Creatures, Consensual Underage Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter Friendship, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle, Minor James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Tom, Sirens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-05-09 04:02:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14708714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyrosekisses/pseuds/honeyrosekisses
Summary: After finding a siren near his home, Tom Riddle has three options: to alert the Aurors about finding a murderer, kill Harry and become the hero of the Britain, or to keep him safe.Luckily for Harry, Tom hates Aurors and never wanted to be a hero.And if there is alittlebloodshed along the way, Tom promised not to kiss and tell.





	1. stranger danger

The energy in the air was _electrifying_.

A herd of ghostly white clouds highlighted the starry night, and the soft whistling of the wind turned into a distracting tune as the rolling waves crashed into the side of the boat.

Slowly and surely, the smell of salt, oil, and rubber attacked all the senses. It started on the skin, creating an unpleasant buzz that crawled everywhere, eventually settling deep within the bones.

A storm was brewing, just like the forecast predicted days ago; the sky crackled in confirmation. And soon droplets of rain began to fall.

Captain Franklin Harris watched his crewmen finish the details of their plan, not bothering to hide his displeasure, the lines around his mouth threatening to leave a permanent mark.

His wishful gaze turned to the ocean, picking and prodding to see if anything resembled a _shadow_ of what he saw weeks earlier. But all that remained was an endless blanket of darkness. At times like these, it was hard to distinguish the sky from the ocean.

Although it was his job, Franklin had never particularly cared for the ocean, only what lurked within. If he could go back in time, he would laugh in his own face when he thought capturing a shark would be the proudest moment in his career.

Now, however, the mystical creatures he read about when he was a boy wasn’t too far stretched. Capturing one was almost a dream.

A month ago, it had been a typical day as a sailor. Boring, long, _exhausting_ , and surprisingly warm considering the usual cold and brisk feeling that engulfed the boat.

He had racked in some flounder and almost called it a day when something hit the side of the boat. At first, he assumed it was another large fish, angry Franklin collected the food it was hunting.

Survival of the fittest.

But when he moved to peek over the side of the railing, blazing red hair started disappearing beneath the surface.

Startled and confused, he jumped back, his heart pounding.

What the…a person…?

 _It’s possible someone fell overboard or lost their boat_ , he thought logically, _a survivor from a wreck._

The tension leaking from his shoulders eased.

He blinked away his temporary confusion and opened his mouth to call out when he felt a prickly feeling on his neck.

He turned to see a boy, a teenager, standing nude, about an arm’s length away. Franklin’s mouth opened to say something, or so he thought, but as soon as their eyes met, his body sagged into total relaxation.

It was an outer body experience. Like his unconscious mind had taken over. Everything around him seemed to stop; his favorite music played and warmth flooded through him from his toes all the way to the tip of ears.

 _The boy had a beautiful voice_ , he thought woozily.

Another sound came from the ocean, where the redhead was previously. The boy’s eyes flashed brighter and his mouth clamped shut.

The singing stopped.

Franklin willed his body to move, but he was helpless as the skinny boy climbed on top of the railing, searching for something.

“Wait,” he breathed, gasping for air. “ _Please_ , wait.”

The boy cranked his neck to stare, eyes shining in question and black hair messy from the wind.

A second later, as fearless as ever, he jumped.

It had taken hours to break free the trace and then he noticed that all the fish he had collected was gone.

The strange, yet beautiful creature haunted his every thought. His only regret was no one was with him to confirm the encounter.

He wouldn’t rest— _couldn’t function_ —until he saw those bright, bright eyes peer up at him once more. If he could, he would stare into those alluring green eyes, dive head first like an Olympic diver and swim in those depths of green forever.

If he thought hard enough, the memories of a perfectly shaped mouth and the voice, _no_ , the calling of an angel would resurface, paralyzing him.

With such beauty and grace, what else could the creature be called?

If he allowed himself to get too enhanced by the faint echoes of a song, his knees would start to buckle and the ringing in his ears would persist.

He knew what his crew was thinking as they sent him worried looks every so often. No one was courageous enough to speak up—eventually one would and he wondered who it would be.

He wasn’t stupid—he knew the chances of finding the same creature again were slim to none. The ocean stretched on for _days_ , but if any of his theories were correct, the creature would still be circling around the general area.

Many of his men had quit when he told his story. Most called him mad, others labeled him obsessed and some – some, thankfully, believed him and stayed.

One of his men finally stepped forward.

He acknowledged that it was his second in command, Andrew, who opened his mouth automatically, only to shut it and lower his eyes to his boots.

The rain was falling more steadily now, creating a loud and rhythmic, and oddly soothing, sound against the boat’s floorboards.

It somehow made everything worst.

All of his men were drenched, including himself, with grease smudged on their faces and their thin uniforms plastered to their bodies. Most were trainees or practically kids who were holding on to the same dream of seeing a fairytale come true – their eyes large, innocent, young and hopeful.

And for the first time, Franklin wondered if he truly was insane. Maybe what he saw wasn’t real and instead something he fabricated during his trials and tribulations of battling motion sickness. Terrified years would past and he would grow old and alone, holding a distant memory.

A _false_ memory.

“Captain,” Andrew coughed, stepping forward into his space, eyes blinking away the rain. “The radio.”

Franklin stilled, uncomprehending. “What about it?” he snarled and enjoyed the way his second in command’s back straightened from his tone.

“General Spacey wants you to report in.”

Franklin cursed under his breath and snatched the radio from his hands, glaring. “Fine,” he said, “just stand back and keep your mouth shut.” He didn’t wait for a reply and pushed a button, putting the device near his lips. “General,” he acknowledged, pausing for a reply.

The last thing he needed was an investigation. He had already stolen the man’s boat after his boat was confiscated. He knew it would catch up with him sooner or later.

“Captain Harris,” the curt reply came a second later. “What do you think you’re doing? A severe storm is headed your way.” He sounded more concerned than angry, which was a good sign.

“I am well aware, General Spacey.” He turned to his men, signaling for them to continue with their operations. They did so, some looking excited once they realized the current mission was becoming rogue.

“Are you also aware that you’re putting your men’s lives at risk?”

“They know the risks, sir.”

Most did anyways. If he left bits of information out, they wouldn’t care as long as the mission was completed.

“Turn my boat around,” Spacey ordered. “You’re now under my direct orders.”

He was too close and refused to become a shell of who he once was.

“No.” He said simply and static buzzed during the momentary silence.

He felt a rush of power and he soaked it up. He was in control now.

“Excuse me?” Spacey spat, sounding stunned and furious. “I can have you reported and arrested for this. I will make sure you never step foot on another boat again.”

Franklin opened his mouth, a _fuck off_ on his lips, when one of his men shouted, “There’s something in the water!”

His head jerked to the source and saw his crewmen almost hanging off the side of the railing, pointing towards the ocean.

Could it be…?

“What was that?” Spacey said, voice rising, and clearly panicking.

“The sound of my middle finger.” With that, he turned off the radio, shoving it back into Andrew’s hands and ordered, “Toss it in the water.”

“B-but, sir!” Andrew spluttered, eyes wide, and mouth hanging open like a fish. “This is the last of our communications! The other radio is fried.”

“Do as I say,” he barked and marched over the group of men standing on the opposite side, looking and searching for something.

“Right there, sir!” the kid said once he saw him, bouncing in his boots. “It was right there!”

There was nothing where he pointed now and Franklin felt his heart skip a beat.

“What?” he said, grabbing the kid by the shoulders and shaking him. “What did you see?”

The kid had to swallow down his excitement, his young face filled with nothing but glee. “Red hair, sir! I swear I saw it with my own eyes! Martin saw it too!”

The man in question eagerly stepped forward. “It’s true, sir,” Martin confirmed, nodding like a bobblehead.

Franklin released the boy, shoving him aside and closed his eyes.

It was true. He didn’t tell anyone the details of what the creature looked like, in fear someone would mock or fabricate lies.

They saw the woman and suddenly his head began to fill with new plans and ideas. Before his main goal was to capture the boy for himself, but if they managed to catch both… he could sell the woman to the government and keep the boy hidden away from the public eye.

If his crew didn’t comply, he would kill them. Throwing them overboard would be easy; accidents happened all the time.

All that mattered was his dream was coming true. He wasn’t crazy. He knew it—

Without warning, the boat took a sharp turn to the left, throwing everyone to the side. They scrambled to cling on to something, the rain making it hard to grip the lines, netting, and ropes surrounding them.

A loud thump sounded from the bottom of the boat, causing everything to jerk forward and the boat crashed between the harsh waves. Water from the ocean splashed inside and Franklin held onto the railing, his grip tight and trying to keep his balance on the slippery surface.

“Stop!” someone suddenly called.

Then all hell broke loose.

He tried to reach for the radio in his vest, only to come up empty. He saw red hair from where he stood and dropped to his knees, hiding panic.

Truth be told, Franklin doesn’t remember how it all happened.

It could have started with a gargling sound, blood splattering across the deck and his men crying for help.

Maybe it started when one of his men tried to crawl to him, only to be dragged back and a ripping sound echoing after.

No. Maybe it finished there. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to.

All he remembered was the redhead appearing over him, long fingernails ready to tear into him, when a hand stopped her.

The boy was there, opening his mouth and speaking into a language that belonged to the angels.

The redhead released a snarl, sent a glare over her shoulder, and jumped back into the ocean.

The boy knelt beside him and stared into his eyes. Green met brown and it was magical.

Franklin felt gentle tucks on his brain and unseen memories began to play in his mind.

He watched as all his men were murdered one by one, their eyes pleading and he could hear their voices calling out for him.

He felt it. He felt everything.

It was torture.

He felt their heads being bashed in, their hearts being ripped from their chests and their spines shattering into pieces as their nails dug into their backs.

He released a deafening scream.

For how long?

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to.

And when he woke up, the sky was beautiful.

And nine men were still dead.

And he didn’t remember anything except the melody to his favorite song.

∞

“Is that it, sir?”

General Daniel Spacey grunted in affirmative, his hands tightening around the edges of his binoculars. He could barely make out the name of the boat—his boat— and breathed a sigh of relief.

The storm ended three days ago and all communication between him and Captain Harris was dead. He spent days worrying about rather or not they had survived the storm and to see his boat still intact was a huge relief.

“Up ahead!” he shouted, placing the binoculars down. “Sharp right.”

His second officer nodded and the small motorboat zoomed towards the stolen rogue ship.

He made sure his life vest was secure and took another deep breath as the motorboat slowed down a touch.

As they got closer, the ocean felt too calm, too quiet.

Something twisted in his gut, and whatever it was, it told him something was horribly wrong.

He needed to take action and fast, but he feared it was already too late.

If anything happened to anyone…

 _Gods_ , he hoped he was wrong.

“Alright,” he said when they were a couple of spaces near the boat. “Stay here. I’ll see what’s happening.”

“Sir?” his second officer whispered and Daniel turned his head towards him in question.

“Be careful.”

He paused at the pleading tone, but he nodded anyway. He wasn’t leaving until he got some answers.

He used the netting on the side of the boat and yanked himself up, swinging his legs around the railing in one swift motion.

Daniel landed in a couple of inches of spoiled water and his nose immediately scrunched up.

The smell—the smell on the boat was unholy.

It was indescribable. Like rotten eggs and a million rats took a dump on a hot summer’s day.

He gagged as the smell assaulted his throat and he coughed, trying to dispense it.

Placing his hand over his mouth, he moved through the water and nearly tripped on something.

Not something.

Someone.

Cold unmoving eyes stared up at him. Wet skin, gray and pale, separated like ramen noodles, bits of hair and feces floating next to him.

Daniel let out a small sound as he saw more bodies floated rounded the corner.

He gagged and raced over to the side, throwing up his breakfast from earlier.

After he took deep breaths and ignored his rising claustrophobia. 

He said a silent prayer and squeezed his eyes, trying to refocus.

With an unsteady hand, he went to grab his radio, but a noise stopped him.

Daniel backed up without another thought, turned, and moved towards the noise. He grabbed his gun from its holster, removed the safety, and pointed it the direction.

Heart pounding, he moved through the piles of dead bodies, bones, and saw Captain Harris leaning against the railing.

His eyes were bloodshot, his skin a sickly green color and a mad grin on his face.

Daniel tucked his gun into his jeans and touched the pulse on the man’s neck. He was still alive.

Relief washed over him. Someone was alive.

“What happened?” He demanded, trying at the slick vomit on the man's chest and face.

“Bright eyes,” Harris mumbled as his mouth turned into a grin. “Red hair and bright eyes.”

There was a pause and the man cackled. “They had to die,” he said. “And it was _glorious_.”

 

∞

_Someone was following him. Or something, he wasn’t sure which._

_He was running so fast everything around him started to blur. He didn’t stop to look back or think, he only pushed his legs to go faster._

_He started to run through the black forest and ignored all the screams sounding from every angle._

_He was too scared to stop and he reached into his pocket, pulling out his wand. As soon as a curse was on the tip of his tongue, the tip sparked black and his wand slowly turned into dust._

_It clouded around him, forming a symbol he didn’t recognize, then disappeared into the scenery._

_In shock, his eyes flickered down for a second and that’s all it took for his feet to become a tangled web._

_Everything was happening in slow motion; the breath knocked out of him, goosebumps scattered all over his skin and he felt a bumpy downfall that seemed to last forever._

_The scenery changed into a lake. Instead of clear water, the lake was red and looked as thick as blood._

_After tumbling down the large hill, he landed into a pile of black sand. He moved his head to the side, the texture of the sand feeling odd against his skin. He ran his fingers through it, only to realize it wasn’t sand but ashes. He moved to his knees and stared at the ashes, something grey shining underneath._

_The perfectly timed wind blew the ashes so he saw what was buried underneath._

_A tombstone._

_His tombstone._

_Name unknown_

_December 31, 1980-?_

_“No,” he whispered, backing away._

_He can’t die._

_A shadowy figure lifted up from the red lake, drawing closer. It resembled a Dementor and one of those creatures of a Muggle film combined._

_“Tom,” it whispered, flying closer and closer. “Tom.”_

_He didn’t notice it start to rain until a droplet hit his face, burning him._

_A loud scream fell from his lips, the crawling sensation manifesting as the rain continued to fall._

_It felt like a thousand fire ants were eating him alive._

_“Help,” he begged. For his life, he would._

_The figure was now in front of him, its face hidden and a large hood covering its head. Its long spidery fingers reached out and touched the back of his neck._

_The burning sensation was gone._

_“Come,” it beckoned._

_With a tear stained face and the smell of burnt skin, he did._

_The figure stopped in front of the lake and pulled him to face the water._

_He couldn’t see his reflection. If he could, red eyes and serpentine skin would look back at him as always._

_Without warning, the figure pushed his head down into the water, his last breath stuck in his throat._

_He struggled, grasping at nothing but water. He was young, he had so much more he wanted to accomplish. He can’t die—_

_“Death always comes to collect.” It laughed a high pitch sound that caused ripples in the water._

_He started to scream._

Tom Riddle woke up with a start, grasping his sheets, and drenched in sweat. The image of acid rain, a ghostlike figure, and total helplessness replayed in his mind as his eyes adjusted to the darkness of his room.

He grabbed his wand, allowing the familiar weight to calm his nerves. It helped, but only slightly. He needed reassurance. “ _Lumos_ ,” he muttered, squinting at the sudden brightness and waved his wand around the room.

Nothing appeared to be out of place and everything was exactly how he left it a few hours ago.

No shadows, red lakes, or black ashes in sight.

He was still alone. And that fact wasn’t as comforting as it should be.

Much to his chagrin, his night clothes were sticking to him uncomfortably, and his hair was plastered to his forehead.

He felt disgusting — a word he never thought he would use in association with himself.

His stomach rolled at the unpleasant feeling.

A sudden pull rose in his throat, and he wrestled off his blankets, charging into the bathroom to empty his stomach into the toilet. He panted heavily, trying to catch his breath and groaned as something in his stomach double over once more.

After he was done, he wiped his mouth and coughed away the last drop of spit and vomit.

Unfortunately, the burn and acid taste remained.

With the support of the toilet, he pulled himself up and flushed. The sound did little to slow down his breathing and he stilled, waiting for his vision to clear.

A minute later, he leaned into the sink and washed his hands. He splashed cold water on his face and suppressed a shiver.

_Something was wrong._

He reached up, ran a hand through his thick curls and tucked. The sharp pain cleared his thoughts and he frowned as he stared at the metal sink.

Since when did he have recurring nightmares about _dying_? Since when did he wake up ill? This was his first time vomiting (hopefully his last) and his health was getting progressively worse with each passing day.

_Death always comes to collect._

Its chilling voice refused to leave his mind, playing over and over like a broken record. This time he didn’t bother to suppress a shiver and coldness traveled up his spine, awakening his senses and sharpening them.

There was a slight rocking sensation, throwing off his equilibrium, and remembered he was _still_ on a ship. He traveled to America to collect a few rare artifacts and had to complete his reports before his boss sent him an owl in a few days.

He was stationed to return home two days ago, but the heavy storm delayed his arrival.

Normally he didn’t mind the travel or the long hours at sea, but being cooped up in a tiny space wasn’t improving his health.

He stripped off his shirt, balling it up in his hands and stared at the item intently as if it had all the answers.

As he thumbed the fabric, feeling the texture, someone knocked on the door.

 _Bloody great_ , he thought bitterly, as his hands gripped the edges of the sink.

He threw a towel over his shoulder to provide some form of modesty and made his way over to his door.

Colin Creevey stood behind it with wide eyes, and a camera with thick straps that looked too heavy for his scrawny body, hanging down from his long neck. Stacks of different types of newspapers and magazines floated next to him.

“Creevey,” he greeted, leaning against the door frame. It took him a few seconds, but he finally managed to swallow down the strange burning sensation in the back of his throat.

The smaller boy’s cheeks heated. “Good morning, Tom.” He returned in his normal scratchy voice. He bit his lip, obviously trying not to stare at Tom’s bare chest and how his pants hung from his hips. “I decided to help the elves this morning by delivering a few things and it’s been a pretty fun experience so far.”

Tom rose an unimpressed eyebrow, letting his eyes roam Creevey in boredom. He had gotten a chance to ‘know’ Colin over the last few weeks and realized he became quite flustered whenever Tom was around, usually causing a delay with unnecessary rambling and stammering. He didn’t even know they went to Hogwarts during the same time, until the boy told him in passing.

“That’s good to know,” he interrupted smoothly. “Are you trying to offer me a newspaper?”

“Yes,” the boy exhaled a breath of relief. “I know you read The Daily Prophet every morning,” he flushed again, horrified by his statement. “So, I made sure you to bring you one fresh from our owl delivery.”

“How kind of you,” he hummed lightly and grabbed one, scanning the front page. “What do I owe you?”

Creevey’s mouth apparently went dry, almost gaping. “O-owe me? What?”

Tom stared, holding his tongue from lashing out. “For the newspaper,” he explained. “My wallet is in my other trousers.”

“Oh,” Creevey said, shaking his head. Tom could see the disappointment in the other’s eyes and resisted the urge to smirk. “That won’t be necessary. Consider it a parting gift.”

A gift?

The boy continued, “I do have a small favor to ask of you…”

Tom tilted his head, curious. “Go on.”

Colin swallowed thickly, shuffling his feet and gathered up enough courage to look him in the eyes. “As you might have noticed from the camera I always carry, I’m a photographer.” Here he paused, hoping to rouse his curiosity, but Tom gave him a blank stare instead.

Clearing his throat, he forced himself to explain. “Anyways, I’m hosting a gallery event in a couple of days.” He bit his lower lip and chewed thoughtfully. “I was wondering if I could use a few pictures of you.”

Ah, this was bound to come to fruition.

Colin wasn’t exactly discreet with his infatuation with him. He had taken up the annoying pastime of following Tom around whenever he thought the other didn’t notice.

It was hard to ignore random clicking and bright flashes, and it was irritating that the boy didn’t even bother to ask or cast a silencing charm on his camera.

“You’re more than welcome to come to the event,” he added nervously. “I’ll even give you a small commission for every art piece I sell.”

 _Art piece._ Implying he was also being used for more than just pictures. To be perfectly honest, he didn’t care that he was going to be plastered and painted as a model in this ‘art gallery’.

“Okay,” he said in acceptance, making a decision. “Do as you please. But, I do have one request.”

Colin nodded, his eyes glossy. “Anything.”

How pathetic.

Tom wet his bottom lip consideration. “I want a list of everyone who purchases an art piece with me on it— _privately_.”

The boy frowned, his eyebrows scrunched together in confusion, but nonetheless, nodded quickly. “Of course, Tom.” He flashed him another shy smile. “I got word from the Captain that we are set to dock in England in just under three hours.”

“Thank you,” Tom hummed slightly, his upper lip curling up, borderline cruel. “Make sure you put a silencing charm on your room for future reference.” He closed the door just as the boy started stammering and flushing an unhealthy red color.

His public mask dropped and he frowned to himself, placing the newspaper on his desk. He went back to the bathroom and stared into the mirror, his eyes resting on his features.

Sometimes beauty was a blessing and a curse.

No red eyes or serpentine skin from his nightmares.

Just jet black hair, dark eyes, and pale skin as always.

He was always amazed how intact and well rested he looked, despite his lack of sleep. He continued to stare at his reflection with a puzzled expression.

The face of his father was now reflected in his own, mocking him. Eventually, his father will die and Tom will never truly be rid of him, because every time he looked into the mirror, his father was there. He wouldn’t be surprised if the man plagued even in death.

Pushing thoughts of his filthy father from his mind, he stripped bare and jumped into the shower.

The scorning hot water was a reminder that no matter how he tried not to be, he was still human.

Mortal.

_Weak._

After he was fully dressed and all of his belongings were packed away in his tiny suitcase, he breathed a sigh of relief. He was beginning to feel claustrophobic as he often stayed in his room after socializing with others became too exhausting.

Funnily enough, this room seemed more like home than his actual home. There was no one to pester him. No heavy expectations. As soon as he got home, everyone will expect something from him.

With one last lingering look, he left.

The walk to the dining station was filled with polite greetings, fake smiles, and onlookers trying to catch his attention.

As usual, he ignored them.

He headed straight to the furthest corner of the bar, because it had less foot traffic, and sat on the polished stool.

Almost immediately, an elf popped in front of him. “Good Morning, Master Riddle. What can Poppy get you to drink?”

“Coffee, black, no cream. Leave the sugar on the side.”

Poppy bowed. “And for breakfast, sir?”

With a quick scan of the menu, he grunted, “The breakfast special will do.”

He pulled out his newspaper as the elf popped away and narrowed his eyes to read what appeared to be a murder mystery.

_NINE MUGGLES DEAD AND COUNTING (10 June 2002)_

_By E. Limus_

_Nine muggles found dead on a Muggle boat near the coast of Britain. A male Muggle communicated, via a machine called a Telephone, the Muggle Crime Watchers Hotline, and immediately the Ministry of Magic Witch Watchers was informed._

_Another Muggle survived the boat attack, apparently traumatized and mumbled about ‘bright eyes’ and a mystical creature leering in the water. He was arrested and committed to an insane asylum before we could get more entail. Pity._

_However, with further research and investigation, healers were shocked to conclude that there were no traces or evidence of the Killing Curse being used._

_No healer has ever seen anything like it. This is the first time in our great history that Magic has been declared ‘unknown’ or ‘untraceable’. If any got their hands on this new found predicament, the future of all Magic societies will be questionable._

_As Britain scrambles into a frenzy and the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, has already asked all Wizards to remain inside after dark and contact him or the Witch Watchers via owl if you see any suspicious activity._

_If a Wizard or Muggle didn’t commit these murders, **what** did?_

 

Tom paused his reading, intrigued.

Nine Muggles were found dead— _murdered_ —right where he was a few days ago. It sent chills down his spine.

The Killing Curse was the most powerful spell in the world and as he stared at the photo on the front page, he wondered if something more powerful was created.

If the Killing Curse wasn’t detected it meant whatever creature had killed those muggles had a unique magical core.

Or, no magical core at all.

Snippets of his previous nightmares played in the back of his mind and he took a deep breath.

His resolve cleared his thoughts and he reminded himself he was not any of those Muggles.

The Captain warned them about the incoming storm but there was no mention of a mystical creature swimming in their area.

If so, magical monitors and signals would have picked up on it. Unless they knew and decided not tell anyone. Which was probably wise. If anyone knew a dangerous magical creature was nearby, panic would rise, and peace on the ship would quickly crumble.

He licked his lips in astonishment, his mind already hooking to this new puzzle.

He almost purred. It had been so long since something interesting and exciting has happened.

He will take great pleasure in solving this case faster than everyone and watching with cruel amazement as the Aurors tried to piece together something he already solved.

His idiotic father being amongst them only added fuel to the inferno inside him.

A heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder, interrupting his musings.

Tom wasn’t surprised to see Alan Mercury, an adrenaline junkie, and treasure hunter, appearing at his side while he was reading about a Muggle crime.

“Top of the morning to ya, Tommy boy,” Alan boomed with a toothy grin, his breath reeking of whiskey and bacon. He jerked his head towards the paper. “I see you’re reading the paper. Pretty nasty, innit?”

Tom felt his eye twitch at the nickname and maneuvered his body so the offending hand dropped from his shoulder, making it look accidental.

Growing up with Pureblood traditions and being a Slytherin taught him a great deal about the endless inner workings of the social and political games around the wizarding world.

He rarely shared his opinion about anything and always gave a noncommittal response.

“I suppose so,” he said quietly. “Muggles have the annoying habit of stumbling about things.”

The beefy man barked out a laugh. “No truer words have been spoken,” he chuckled, but it died down and a more serious expression crossed his features. The man stepped closer and leaned towards his ear. “Those attacks weren’t too far from where we docked last, you know. Imagine if we were the ones attacked. No one is too convinced by the reports and rumors are spreading that it was a magical creature of some sort. No wizard was powerful enough to perform untraceable magic, not even the likes of Dumbledore.”

So he wasn’t the only one connecting the dots and speculating theories. Maybe his fellow witches and wizards aren’t obvious and clueless after all.

Dumbledore, although the old fool was powerful, he wasn’t the most powerful wizard in Britain.

Tom knew it was him. The old fool denies it, but deep down, they both knew was more powerful.

He made a curious sound in the back of his throat. “What type of creature are people suggesting?”

The man gave a half-hearted shrug and leaned back slightly, the smell of whiskey following him. “No one’s too sure,” he admitted with a bitter undertone. He had the look of a man with a wounded pride because he couldn’t figure out a puzzle.

A beat later, he sobered up and puffed out his chest. “Whatever it is, my mates and I will find it. Sooner rather than later.”

Of course, there was always the stupidly brave sacrificing themselves to fuel their everlasting hero complexes.

While wizards stood more of a fighting chance against a magical creature than a Muggle, they didn’t know anything about the creature.

If they captured or killed them, what’s to say that won’t cause a domino effect? A riptide of bloodshed? The situation was delicate and any wrong move could end with more lives slaughtered than saved.

One thing for certain, the creature obviously wanted to be left alone and only seemed to attack when provoked.

However, he didn’t voice any of these concerns and simply nodded. “Do as you see fit,” he said, turned back to the bar and flipped to the next page.

The man huffed, not expecting such a response. “You can come along if you want. Imagine the fame and fortune if we succeed. The more, the merrier, I say.”

Tom ignored him, keeping his focus on the words in front of him.

Mercury lingered for a while longer, weighing his options. He cleared his throat. “Are you still seeing that Muggleborn?”

The question hit him strangely.

Unwelcomed, thoughts of Hermione Granger pushed forward into his mind. He had ended their relationship before he left, knowing it destroyed her to leave things on such a sour note. They still lived together, as far as he knew, and he wasn’t looking forward to seeing her again.

He will always care about her, but he no longer wanted to be with her.

In the beginning, their relationship was fun and different. She challenged him, not too much of course, but just enough to make Hogwarts’ lessons a bit less dull. To him, she was the pretty know-it-all witch that was pushy and demanding, and when he was sixteen it was everything that he wanted.

Those teenager memories meant nothing to him as years past. It was a prickling remainder he made a huge mistake to take their friendship to the next level.

Now, their relationship shifted dramatically when they moved into together after graduating from Hogwarts. She worked long hours to become an established healer and his interest in her plummeted every time she would demand something from him.

Two opposing and naturally stubborn forces dating wasn’t as fun as it seemed. They were both were asking too much from each other. She wanted to change him and he wanted her to accept him for who he was.

He was more interested in her brain than her personality or body.

And when he realized that was the case a few weeks ago, he broke things off.

It didn’t seem like Alan had any wrong intentions, but Tom didn’t want Hermione put in any unnecessary danger, regardless of his personal feelings towards her.

“Why do you ask?”

Alan shook his head. “Nothing,” he grunted. “She’s a healer and is probably working on this case. And it would get pretty ugly if someone found out about missing or false reports.” With a more intense look, he returned back to his friends.

Tom didn’t need the warning. He knew how people felt about Muggleborns, and Hermione would get blamed for every wrongdoing if she was working on this murder case.

He wouldn’t worry too much; Hermione as always taken care of herself.

The rest of the time was spent in silence, anxiety so thick that it covered breakfast and you could taste it on your tongue.

Everyone was unnaturally still, seemingly on the edge of their seats as they shared looks of exasperation when anyone brought up the muggle murders.

When the ship docked, Tom was one of the first to exit and headed straight to the already overcrowded apparition point.

He thought about the forest near his home and let himself be whisked away.

Tom landed perfectly on the walkway in the forest and let the fresh air consuming him. It orientated him and his eyes focused on the trees, taking in life.

It was easy to forget how to breathe sometimes.

Out of nowhere, something moved in his peripheral vision, obviously startled by his sudden appearance.

Tom eyes immediately swung in different directions and searched for the object. A rustle of leaves and twigs snapped to turn his right and he went into battle mode.

Something was trespassing near his home.

Whatever it was, they weren’t smart enough to outlast him.

His wand hit his palm as his eyes roamed the forest once more before he took a step forward.

He placed a silencing charm on his shoes and walked deeper onto the trail, listening for any strange noises.

The path was clear, the wind blew, and a few birds flew from tree to tree.

He wasn’t fooled.

There was another rustling noise and he snapped his head in that direction, pausing when he saw something move behind a tree. A flash of tan let him know it was a person.

 _Stupefy_ was on the tip of his tongue, then the person rounded their head and peeked from behind the tree.

Tom froze as he saw green eyes and bare skin. The person didn’t appear to have a wand in their hands as their fingers were curled around the middle of the tree.

He frowned and lowered his wand.

It was just a teenage boy, no older than seventeen, who looked severely underweight judging by his bone structure. From what he could see of it anyway.

Probably abused and starved, and finally managed to run away from home.

Their eyes met briefly and the boy quickly dashed into the nearby bushes.

“Wait,” he called, knowing a few traps were set in the forest.

As if on cue, a snap, a large thump, and a wailing scream echoed. And the silence carried on.

Tom cursed to himself and moved towards the area, his wand firm in his grip. The first thing he saw was messy black hair and a nude body to follow.

His hair appeared to be wet and Tom let his eyes travel to the outer edge of the forest. The boy came from the ocean.

This wasn’t good. He lived in a fairly small village, so they were rarely any foreigners or visitors. People had the habit of always watching, especially now there was a potential creature on the loose.

If he contacted the Aurors, they would only spend the kid back to his family and nothing would be done to help him.

Going to Hermione for help wasn’t an option since she would be more focused on their issues, rather than helping the boy.

If he contacted anyone, the situation would be out of his control.

The stranger didn’t appear to be a creature (he looked human) and then another thought occurred to him.

But what if…?

He cleared his throat and performed a simple diagnostic spell to check for internal injuries. His heartbeat was alarmingly fast, but other than that the boy was fine, simply knocked unconscious.

Careful not to stare at his nakedness, he stripped off his outer robe and placed it over him, covering his small body fully.

Tom could see a large bruise on his forehead and his right ankle looked larger than usual. He needed to hurry.

He searched to make sure no one was around and lifted the boy off the ground, carrying him bridal style. He was surprised by him light he was and frowned. Underneath his fingertips, the boy’s skin was unnaturally soft, smooth and cold. He tightened his hold.

Once he arrived home, he placed the stranger on the couch and conjured some old clothes for him. Tom’s old trousers and shirt looked comically large and it only highlighted how small he was.

How could someone do something so cruel to their own child? He wasn’t a saint, but every monster had their limits.

He healed him and was glad the boy didn’t flinch or startle as magic wrapped him, fixing his minor injuries.

After he was done, he quietly brewed some tea and kept his gaze on the couch for any signs of movement. Once he got more answers, he would have more time to think and help.

Being a hero was already exhausting. How did people do this every day?

A few minutes later, he placed the tea on the coffee table and paused when he noticed the boy’s injuries were already healed, nothing but blemish-free skin in its place.

Impossible. The previous bruise on his forehead was wide and looked like he hit his head a couple of times, potentially causing a concussion. His ankle had swelled to the size of a medium sized rock and now was just as bony as the rest of him.

It had only been five minutes and he looked like he never was hurt at all

Healing spells were designed to take away the pain first and repair the injury slowly so it didn’t counteractive with any other injuries.

Amazed, Tom reached out a hand in curiosity and as he was about an inch away, green eyes flew open and a hand locked Tom’s wrist in a tight grip.

The hand was cold and incredibly soft, and Tom realized he liked that.

He leaned back in alarm and tugged his wrist free.

Before he could think, green eyes were already zipping around the room and taking in the scene.

His eyes landed back on Tom’s before flickering down to his body and running his hands over his shirt and pants in fascination. He touched his forehead and rubbed the skin there, and then lifted his leg to stare at his healed ankle. He proceeded to flex his fingers and stretched his limbs. When everything appeared to be in order, his small body relaxed.

“I’m Tom,” he spoke, effortlessly snaring the other’s attention. His heart caught in his throat as the other’s eyes held an innocent, yet dangerous shine to them.

He swallowed down the bile his throat, ignoring his attraction and focused on the task. “Do you remember what happened to you?”

He simply stared at Tom, his eyes rapidly moving to his face and then to his body.

That wasn’t normal and he believed his earlier suspicions were correct.

Something was different about this boy.

“I didn’t contact anyone,” he pressed when silence was his only answer. “If I owl the Aurors they won’t be able to help you. If you’re in a… _sensitive_ family situation, they will only send you back there and I don’t want that for you. Unless, of course, you want to return home.”

The stranger’s head tilted at the word ‘home’ and his eyes burned in understanding.

Realization hit Tom that he didn’t understand English. Or if he did, very little.

Suddenly, the stranger’s mouth opened, and a beautiful angelic quickly filled the air.  

He felt wisps of soft magic circle around him and he stared at the boy, paralyzed. He resisted the urge to buckle his knees and fought against the delicate music, allowing his magic unleashed. His magic crawled its way through the feeling, dismantling everything in its path.

His thoughts began to break free from the intrusion as his body stuttered.

Tom shook his head, clearing the addicting sound from ears and the buzz on skin faded away.

The singing ceased and the house became deadly silent.

As their eyes reconnected, they both were startled by what just transpired.

He has never felt something so pleasurable in his entire life and wanted to chase the feeling again.

He broke free from the call of a…

A _siren_.

A _male_ siren.

Tom stepped back unknowingly, mouth open in unfiltered surprised. “You’re a—”

Before he could finish, like quicksilver, the boy pushed him down into the armchair and straddled him.

Tom stilled completely, instinctively twitching for his wand. But something made him stop.

He could see those green eyes fully now, how bright and lively they were. An addictive quality to them.

From his readings over the years, sirens were rare and almost extinct. And here one was, straddling his lap, and staring at him in curiosity.

He didn’t know what was happening, but he couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to stop.

The siren reached for his wrist and instead of holding it, he simply rubbed his thumb along the inside. It was strangely intimate.

The siren moved his hands everywhere and traced his fingers against Tom’s cheeks, nose and eventually settled in his hair. The other’s eyes danced with mirth as he played with his curls and tucked on the back of his nape.

Tom waited for his skin to recoil from the skin contact, but his heart only started beating faster and he found himself leaning into the touch.

He swallowed down dryness in his throat and wet his lips, as the siren’s eyes followed the motion.

He touched his Adam’s apple and rested his small hand on Tom’s chest. He seemed perfectly content with sitting on his lap and when his hand lowered itself near his crotch, Tom quickly grabbed it. He relaxed again when the siren started retracing his face, thankfully, far away from his crotch.

“You know,” he began thickly, now resting his hands on the boy’s hips to keep him in place. “People usually ask nicely before they decide to sit on my lap.” The boy ignored him, not understanding, and wiggled his hips to get comfortable. In alarm, Tom squeezed his hips more tightly in panic. “Circle, are you trying to…I don’t even know your name.”

The boy paused at that and a thoughtful expression settled on his face.

“Harry.” Came a thick and heavy accent seconds later. Tom had a hard time placing it and he didn’t know if sirens had a universal language other than their singing.

Perhaps, singing was their language.

His name was also a common English name and his family was probably close by.

“Harry,” he repeated, testing it out. It oddly suited him.

Harry, still undeterred, pressed his nose against Tom’s shoulders. They breathed each other’s air, both finding it hard to ignore the pull between. Tom wanted to find out if what he was reading in those green eyes was just his imagination.

The spell was broken as a wave of magic pulsed in the air, alerting his wards of someone appearing in front of his house.

Harry scrambled off his lap in shock and stared at the front door in a panic. His green eyes narrowed, a flicker of betrayal and Tom leaped to his feet, stopping him.

“No,” he said, grabbing Harry’s wrist when he started to open his palm. “It’s probably one of Hermione’s siblings. No danger.”

Harry still kept his focus on the door, untrusting.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Tom promised. “I’m your friend.”

Something in that statement made Harry crack. “F-friend?” his voice was feeble and laced with a thick accent.

He nodded slowly, his thumb tracing his soft knuckles. “Friend.” He repeated and squeezed his hand, before dropping it.

Harry hide out of view as Tom backed away slowly and went to the door.

Familiar red hair and dull green eyes stared up at him. In the flesh, Hermione’s little sister with her usual scowl fixed on her freckled face.

“Oh,” Ginevra Weasley spat as a greeting. “So you are home.” She tried to bypass him, but he smacked his palm against the doorframe, blocking her.

“What do you want?” he drawled. “Or more importantly, why are you here?”

She huffed, crossing her arms. “I have every right to be here! Hermione has been worried sick!”

_If Hermione is so worried, why isn’t she here instead?_

“The last time I checked Hermione wasn’t my keeper.”

“She’s _your_ girlfriend.”

“ _Former_ girlfriend.” He corrected her.

“Accordingly to her, you guys are still together and are on ‘break’, not ‘break up’.”

He waved a dismissive hand. If Hermione was still clinging to their relationship, it was hardly his problem. “Semantics,” he said. “If she was here I’m sure she’ll tell you to leave.”

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion and she tried to peek over his shoulders to no prevail. “What are you hiding?” she demanded, trying to intimidate him. “Why can’t I come in?”

Of course, ripples in his wards alerted him again and he tried not to twitch. Harry was moving around, probably becoming restless and more mistrustful.

“Because, Ginevra, I don’t want you to.” He told her and he can see his nonchalant responses were enraging her more.

“Hermione will know about this.”

“Yes,” he said smoothly. “She is _your_ keeper after all.”

Ginevra’s face flushed with anger. “I tried to warn her about you long ago. I told her she will never have full commitment from you.” She stepped into his space. “You’re gay, aren’t you? That’s why you can’t commit to someone as beautiful as Hermione. Just admit it and save me the heartache.”

He went to retort that she should date Hermione instead, but Ginevra made a crucial mistake.

 _‘Save me the heartache’_.

_Me._

Her slip up almost made him crack his perfect facade.

He dropped his arm from the door and gave her a curious look. “Tell me something, Ginevra,” feeling playful, he tapped his chin, “what do you remember about my fifth year at Hogwarts?”

She frowned, thrown off by the question. “Why would I remember _your_ fifth year?”

He made a thoughtful hum. “You followed me around a lot so I thought you would remember that’s all.”

Her cheeks turned as bright as her hair. “I didn’t follow you around.”

“Really?” He prompted. “I don’t think it was one of your brothers trying to sneak into Prefect’s bathroom at midnight.”

“Hermione was a Prefect too,” she said defensively. “And my brothers are always up to something.”

“Blaming your brothers for your stalker tendencies,” he tsked slightly. “I thought better of you, Ginevra.” He stepped closer and she backed away, staring at him. “Hermione talks about me a bit, doesn’t she?”

He paused to see if she would answer, but her face remained nervous. “How many times have you fantasized about being in my bed?” The question made her face crumble and her mouth opened, only to click shut.

Her speechless was all he needed to know.

“Well?” he pressed and towered over her, making her back hit the side of the house.

“That’s why you’re so unsatisfied with your dating life,” he continued with a chuckle, “you go on little dates trying to find someone who resembles me and when they don’t meet your standards, you become frustrated.”

“You become _hollow_.”

She closed her eyes, not denying it.

He slapped his palms on either side of her head, not bothering to hide his traditional smirk. “Does Hermione know that while she discussing me, you’re privately thinking about how you can do better than her? Does she know,” he whispered, dropping his eyes down her body in a once over, “that her little sister creams at the sight of me?”

Gently, he reached down and moved a few strands for her face. “Is that why you raced over here? How sisterly of you.” His finger ran down her bare arm, watching as he created goosebumps on her skin.

Tom’s skin itched with compulsion.

“Leave,” he ordered, pulling away and dropping his hands. Her eyes snapped opened and her bottom lip trembled. “Hermione doesn’t have to know about this. You can leave here with some of your dignity and a broken fantasize.”

When she just stood there, looking on the verge of tears, he snapped. “Go!” She flinched at his tone and he watched as she left with a crack.

Closing and locking the door behind him, Tom turned to face the dark and empty space.

Taking a deep breath, he searched hurriedly around the house, trying to find Harry.

But the siren was gone.


	2. you can't hide from me (or yourself)

As the moon stole the spotlight from the sun, the air inside the house became frigid and the chilling breeze knocked against the windows like an unwelcome guest.

Tom sat on his couch, nursing a glass of firewhiskey, and stared into the fireplace. He tapped his finger against the armrest, causing the flames to dim and flicker on and off.

In the blazing flames, the events from the last few days played like a Muggle sitcom. Everything was beginning to sink in. The severe storm, Muggles being murdered, and a siren appearing in the forest right after Magical Britain announced a mandatory lock down.

The crinkled morning newspaper had all the evidence he needed.

_Nine Muggles found dead on a Muggle boat near the coast of Britain._

_Another Muggle survived the boat attack, apparently traumatized and mumbled about ‘bright eyes’ and a mythical creature leering in the water._

Harry was a murderer.

The murderer everyone was searching for.

Or Harry was an accomplice to killing those Muggles and turning one completely insane.

And instead of focusing on piecing together the clues, Tom allowed himself to be seduced.

No one has ever come close to seducing him and Harry wasn't even trying.

Being manipulative and charming, and twisting a few words to his advantage had always worked in the past. If Weasley didn't distract him, Harry would be here; spilling all of his secrets, begging for help and hanging onto Tom's every word.

But even still, having Harry here would mean something… something Tom wasn't ready to define at the moment.

The strong arousal coursing through his body wasn't enough to hide the shame it came with. When the siren moved his hips too perfectly on his lap, Tom's breath had grown too unsteady, and it caught him off guard. Harry couldn't be more than seventeen years old and thoughts of bedding him should make Tom sick, but it doesn't.

After taking another sip of firewhiskey, he smacked his glass down and ignored the warning groan from the table.

Is this what people mean why they say distance makes the heart grow fonder?

He stood to his feet, wanting to be far from here as possible. He shouldn't be uneased by Harry's departure. They haven't known each other for more than ten minutes.

The boy was a murderer. An untraceable creature who has placed an entire country on its back in absolute fear. He should be happy the siren fled.

Harry would eventually be haunted and killed, and Tom will read about it weeks from now, glad he didn't get tangled into a murder case. Especially murders he didn't commit.

But try as he might, he refused to let go of the possibilities. He wanted answers. Not from an article in The Daily Prophet or people's biased views on the situation— he needed answers from Harry.

What the bloody hell was wrong with him? Did he grow a sudden weakness for beautiful green eyes and a pretty face?

No, he balled his fists, he wasn't really attracted to Harry. Everyone found sirens beautiful. It was human nature to be tempted by creatures who were made to the allure.

Pushing those thoughts away, he headed upstairs to his bedroom.

Everything was exactly how he left it. He took a deep breathe, breathing in the freshness the room provided.

The bed was neatly made and his closet was clean and organized. Back on the ship, he found zero solaces in being cooped up in a tiny room with only his work and growing claustrophobia to think about.

Pausing by the bed, he almost forgot this was Hermione's room just as much as his. The soft smell of her perfume hit his nose. He could imagine the soft feel of her hips or the light in her deep brown eyes as she stared at him with utmost love and respect.

Admiration he adored at one point.

He closed his eyes, ignoring his ire and pinched his nose. Problems after problems were beginning to mount over his head. Sometimes he wished he could disappear forever and escape all the annoying problems the world threw at him.

Miscalculating Hermione's reaction to his return home was another mistake. If she believed they could work things out, it was going to be a longer day than expected.

Tom wasn't looking forward to their evitable conversation.

He illogically believed that weeks and weeks of his continued absence would make her…leave. He underestimated her determination and her will to fight for what she believed in.

Sighing, he made his way to the bathroom and jumped into the shower. Warm water trickled down his skin as he blinked away the forbidden images that tried to crawl its way into his mind. He scrubbed at his pale skin until the flesh turned red, hoping to wash away any tingles Harry left.

They aren't real. They aren't real. Harry did something to him. The tingles weren't real.

However, his arousal disagreed.

The scorning hot water poured over his head, down his back and he reached for his co—

A note was stuck to his shampoo bottle, preserved under a few charms with Hermione's familiar handwriting scribbled on it.

I know you had a long trip so I brought your favorite shampoo. I remember you told me it helps you relax. See? I do listen to you.

Hermione.

His lips almost twitched into a smile. The note distracted him from doing something he would later regret.

Once he was fully dressed, another idea came to him.

Hermione was a knowledge Healer and worked with magical creatures often. She had tons of books with a wide range of different subjects and topics. So there has to be something about sirens in their home office.

With an extra pep in his step, he headed to their shared office down the hallway. The office was filled with a large desk and shelves lined up with dozens of books, scrolls, and parchment.

He thumbed his way through the books, thankful everything was in chronical order and organized based on size and importance.

The cover of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander caught his eye. Wanting to learn more about the creature residing in his chamber, he had read it years ago.

If he closed his eyes, he was back at Hogwarts, hunched over a book in the back of the library. Despite how tired he was between balancing school, Prefect duties, and outside research, he couldn't rest until he solved whatever nagged at his brain for too long. His work ethic was something he took pride in.

And seeing all his classmate's struggle to keep up with him—even the likes of Hermione—exhilarated him.

He placed the attractive book on the desk and devoured the pages, in search for key information.

A small description was found towards the back.

_Sirens are beautiful, charming, yet dangerous creatures. They have an extraordinary talent of allusion and by the use of their singing, they can enhance anyone to do anything they desire._

_However, simple ear blocking charms can eliminate the effects of a siren's call. Be warned; sirens are prideful and sensitive creatures who don't take rejection to kindly. If their singing fails to enhance you, they will fall into a depressive state and are likely to commit suicide._

_On a lighter note, they have heightened senses, fast reflexes, and extreme physical strength. Their diet includes blood and fish. If they are strong enough, they can even feed and manipulate someone's magic or arousal._

_But in more recent years, sirens have evolved into something not even I can begin to describe._

Attention captured, Tom flipped to the next page and frowned when the next section discussed mermaids.

Something wasn't right. The section on sirens was incomplete.

He turned to the rest of the pages, scanning every section possible— mermaids, nymphs, incubuses, but there was no continuation on sirens.

As he rubbed underneath his chin in confusion, he reread the small description over.

Not only was it incomplete but the author's tone was erroneous.

Scamander was a well-established Magizoologist, famous in his own right, and known to be one of the greatest authors in magical history. Despite the company he kept, being one of Dumbledore's favorite, the man had respectable accomplishments.

Even Tom couldn’t deny them.

The man had won dozens of awards.  A chocolate frog card was crafted in his honor. In fact, the first ever chocolate frog card Tom received was Newt Scamander's.

That being said, it was unlikely a publishing mistake like this would go unnoticed for fifty years.

His wand hit his palm.

Coming to an abrupt realization, he tapped his wand against the book. “ _Aparecium,_ ” he whispered. Nothing happened except a little rattle sound.

Time seemed to trickle by and after a quick cast of _Revelio_ , something happened.

The book's pages turned viciously, snapping close. A moment later the book reopened with its words scrambling and the entire section on sirens erasing, only leaving a single sentence:

_Sirens are mysterious creatures; they evolve each and every day._

Evolved.

How cryptic.

The rest of his writings seemed to be intact, drawing further confusion.

Someone went to great lengths to change Scamander's original words sirens. But why?

He traced his finger along the book cover, tapping his finger against the gold lines.

The book was still in excellent condition and couldn't be more than a decade old.

Which meant…

Tom licked his bottom lip in consideration.

Someone has been tampering with published books for years.

What other books had false information? Vital information that was now lost.

Books were the main source of information in the wizarding world. And the thought of someone playing messing with research and information made him…

His gut clenched in repulsion.

Bile rose in his throat as disgust pricked at his skin.

He gripped the edge of the desk, fighting the urge to vomit. He refused to empty his stomach twice in one day. Tom took a deep breath, ignoring the burn in the back of his throat and a building fever that caused him to sweat.

The moment passed and he swallowed any bile left in his throat. The blurry lines cleared from his vision and his breathing eventually leveled out.

He didn't acknowledge his trembling fingers. He was on a mission and sickness wasn't going to stop him.

He stood and set his eyes back to the bookshelf before he froze.

A wave of magic flooded through the house. The house pulsed and the wards shifted, accepting the person as a familiar magical signature.

Disappointment crawled up Tom's spine.

Hermione.

Just Hermione.

He cursed himself for even thinking for a split second that it was- focus, Tom.

There was a noticeable small pause downstairs. Doors opened and closed. Dishes and glasses clinked together. The fireplace crackled.

Heels tapped against the stairs, slow and cautious. Their bedroom door opened and unknown movements sounded from inside.

With a wave of his wand, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them was sent back to its proper place.

For now, he won't reveal anything about what occurred a few hours ago. He couldn't take a risk, not willing to let anyone know too much.

Harry would be his secret. His.

He molded his face into one of neutrality when she finally entered their shared office.

Hermione was dressed in her bright healer robes and her face was twisted into one of exhaustion and sadness. Her mouth was pressed into a tight line, making her look older than what she really was.

She still managed to look beautiful.

But compared to Harry, she was lacking. Her eyes didn't hold the same power that flared in Harry's.

She merely paused at the sight of him and shifted on one foot to another, almost shy.

No, that wasn't right, almost too shy, as if she had never seen him before.

Her face formed into one of relief as he remained silent. Despite being stressed, the tension in her shoulders dropped slightly and something flashed in her brown eyes. He was tempted to call it satisfaction.

“Tom,” she spoke, holding her head confidently. “I'm glad you're here. I didn't think—”

I didn't think we would ever speak again. I didn't think you were coming back.

He almost wished he hadn't.

Hermione shook her head with a frown and tried again. “I brought dinner,” she nodded like she was building confidence within herself to speak.  “I'll be downstairs… setting the table.”

With an awkward shift, she left.

Dinner, as expected, was silent and tense.

Hermione took bites of food, peaking at him through her eyelashes every so often. If their eyes met longer than necessary, she flushed and went back to staring at her plate.

Unperturbed, Tom filled his glass with water. The firewhiskey left a buzzing feeling underneath his skin and the coolness of the water flushed it away.

“So,” Hermione began, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “The weather is… hectic.”

Not so subtly, he grabbed his fork and stabbed into his vegetables. He ignored her tiny wince.

The food was delicious.

“Yes,” he said with a pause, knowing today was the best weather they had since winter. “The weather is ‘hectic’.”

Much like the atmosphere in the room right now.

She flushed a bright red color, hearing his sarcasm. “I meant, well, I didn't mean it like hectic hectic,” she coughed, reaching out and taking a sip of water. “Hectic has in good. That's what the kids are saying nowadays. They put the word hectic in front of everything. Hectic music. Hectic food. Hectic robes. You have been traveling for so long, you might've missed it.” Another cough. “Anyways, how was work?”

He decided not to comment on the change of subject, trying not to raise an unimpressed eyebrow. This conversation, as well as other future interactions, will provide an answer to a question he had in the back of his mind since he ended things between them.

After everything, can they remain friends?

A small part of him knew the answer already, but the more rational side of him wanted to give Hermione a chance.

Admittedly, he didn't put forth the same effort in their relationship as she did.

He was sounding far too sentiment for his own liking.

“Fine,” he said shortly, cutting into his roast and watched as it bled red. “You?”

She brightened up and chewed quickly, not bothering to hide how thrilled she was. “My head healer is starting to give me more responsibilities. At first, she didn't trust me but as soon as I started to get more comfortable around patients, things changed.” Bits of carrots flew from her mouth as she began to talk with more animation.

His eye twitched in disgust and she slowed down, finally swallowing her food. Then again, she was never good at swallowing.

“I'm finally getting appreciated and rewarded for my hard work. People are even starting to request me. Just the other day, a patient sent me flowers. The card said I was one of the best healers they have ever seen. Can you believe that?”

“Unbelievable,” He hummed, not meaning it and glanced at anything but her. He noticed the décor had changed since he left.

Intriguing.

Hermione's face fell slightly, probably affronted by his lack of enthusiasm.

A hushed silence huddled around them. She pushed her food around her plate and then snapped her head up, staring at him with a new look of determination.

“How did your trip go? Did you enjoy Albania?”

A painting on the far end of the dining room caught his eye. People danced and laughed in a sunset.

Something inside him stirred.

Emptiness enclosed around him, choking him. He patted his stomach, a faraway look in his eyes, and wondered why he felt hollow.

Longing, the voice in his head whispered, the feeling you are trying to describe is longing.

He wished and hoped for it to end.

It never did.

Albania was a beautiful country, perfect in many ways. And he wasn't referring to the scenery—yes, while Albania did have many exquisite wizarding villages, he was focused more on their society itself. Unlike in Britain or America, dark magic was welcomed, accepted even. They allowed wizards to practice dark magic freely.

If the Ministry didn't have so many restrictions and regulations in place, Britain would be a happier place.

Until then, he's content to play the role of being a light wizard. Judging by his associates and other political figures, he wasn't the only one becoming impatient.

He recalled a particular conversation he had with his fellow Slytherins in their fourth year.

_“You should do something about it, Riddle,” Draco Malfoy said to him one evening. “You believe in tradition,”" His grey eyes grew cold, borderline cruelty touching his smile. “You are the King of Slytherin after all.” The last sentence was laced with bitterness and Draco's eyes flashed in fear when Tom turned his way._

_He had other things to think about but it seemed as the research for his chamber grew, so did Malfoy's boldness. That simply won't do._

_Tom closed his book, playfulness gone. “Haven't you heard, Malfoy? Mudbloods aren't on my list of priorities. If you are talking about practicing dark magic freely… why me? Why do you believe I can change the Ministry's laws? I thought you were a Slytherin and a Malfoy?” he tapped his chin, feigning thoughtfulness. “Or, are you simply waiting for your balls to drop and for your daddy to take away your pacifier?”_

_The group surrounding him snickered._

_A thrill surged through Tom when Malfoy's cheeks flushed and his eyes dropped, accepting the insult for what it was._

_But no one else said anything. Not even Zabini, Parkinson, or Nott._

_They simply stared._

_“Why not you?”_

Why not, indeed.

“More or less,” he answered, taking a bit of food to satisfy his empty stomach. He wasn't particularly interested in conversing anymore, preferring silence over forced conversations.

Hermione's eye twitched, showing her irritation. “What does that mean?” she questioned. “You should have some opinion about it. A dangerous creature was leering where your ship was stationed at.”

He made a noise in the back of his throat, acknowledging her point. “Yes, but I was more worried about surviving a storm than a creature attempting to kill over two hundred passengers.”

“You were worried about a storm?” Her mouth twisted in one of disbelief, before pursuing her lips. “There's an untraceable creature on the loose. People are terrified, Tom. There's a curfew placed on the entire country. The Aurors have already started questioning people and evading privacies by going in and out of homes without a search warrant. That doesn't scare you?”

Tom's grip on his fork tightened at the mention of Aurors and he pressed his lips into a thin line.

Aurors, he thought bitterly. A bunch of mindless fools.

Hermione's features softened a touch, knowing she made a mistake. “I know how you feel about your father," she whispered. "He speaks to me about you—”

He went taut, snapping his eyes to her, and narrowing them. “He what?”

She chewed on her bottom lip with her eyes wide and pleading. “Your father isn't so bad, Tom. He talks about you often. He said…” guilt flashed in her eyes, “He wants to speak with you tomorrow morning.”

Like quicksilver, his mind went from irritated to furious. All he could focus on was the sharp and teeth chattering rage building in his chest.

He had told her about him.

He had trusted her to keep his secrets.

He had warned her about meddling in between him and his father.

Nothing came out when he opened his mouth, the sting of betrayal too bitter to unclog from his throat.

His father and Hermione have never gotten along, for obvious reasons, yet they had time to discuss him over tea and biscuits.

He blinked, did it again and calmly started to fold the napkin in front of him. The knife and fork were next.

He needed to do something with his hands. A distraction in order to not grab his wand and choke her with—

“Tom,” she pleaded, “please say something. I'm only trying to help.”

The utensils slipped from his hands and dropped on the table with a loud clunk.

His knees bumped into the table as he stood, his quick movements causing the chair to topple on its side behind him.

Without looking back, he left her and the table behind.

Breathe. Breathe.

He climbed the stairs and entered his bedroom. His trunk and suitcase were still laying on top of the nightstand, shrunken into a size of buttons.

Excellent.

Her heels trailed up the stairs.

Going to the shared closet, he ripped clothes off the hangers and threw everything, including shoes and bags, onto the floor.

“What are you doing?” cried out Hermione from the doorway. "Tom, stop."

He wheeled around, face carefully blank. “You're right,” he nodded, eyeing the mess he was making. “Magic is faster. Forgive me.”

With his wand out, he flung open empty suitcases and flew the items inside. 

He wanted her gone. Dead. She could jump off a bridge and land into a pool of acid with her skin melting off. That shouldn’t hurt too badly.

“I'm trying to help you, Tom!” She stepped into the room and pointed her wand at the closet, shutting it with a loud click. “You're being irrational. Your father has turned a new leaf, wants to—”

Here, he exploded.

“A new leaf? You keep defending the very man who voted to have Muggleborns taken from their families at the first sign of accidental magic. When's the last time you've seen your biological parents? Do you remember their names? What they looked like? Who they are?” Her flinch was all the answer he needed. “Don't lecture me about family when the one you have isn't real.”

Her lips trembled in either rage or shock. Both maybe. “The Weasleys took me in when no one else offered to take a Muggleborn into their home. They are my real family. They have been for the past twelve years.” She moved closer to him, speaking in a softer voice. “Which is why I know how important family is.” Her face hardened. “I have always been there for you. The Chamber—”

“My chamber,” he spat, furious. “Was and is none of your business.”

“It was my business when you attacked and went after Muggleborns!”

Tom gritted his teeth, sucking in a harsh breath. “I didn't go after Muggleborns. Those people,” he spat, twirling his wand. It sparked red.  “Were stupid enough to wander the school's halls after curfew. More Purebloods were petrified than anyone else.”

“And Myrtle?” Tears prickled at the corner of her eyes now. “Did she deserve to die?”

“It's funny,” he paused with a humorless chuckle, watching her tears with a note of disgust. “I don't remember you crying for Myrtle when she was alive. After all,” he bared his teeth, “wasn't it you who called her Moaning Myrtle behind her back? If the rumors I heard were true, you were the first to call her that. Some friend you are.”

“You're right,” Hermione sniffed, blinking her tears away. “I did call her that but that doesn't mean she deserved to die.” She balled up fists. “You always told me your father was cruel and coldhearted. Maybe you're exactly like your father. Maybe I was too blind to see it, until now.”

Despite himself, his shoulders tensed and memories he tried to bury resurfaced.

Dumbledore had told him something similar ages ago.

“You have the ability to do well in this world, Tom,” Dumbledore spoke gently after he was sorted in Slytherin. His twinkling blue eyes held a look of severe disappointment as Tom merely blinked at up, a façade of perfect charm hiding his ill feelings towards the man.

“Of course, Headmaster Dumbledore. I will go on to accomplish great things.”

Things you can't even wish to imagine.

It was a harsh reminder of how the old man's opinions had bothered him for a long time. He didn't understand how a powerful wizard like Dumbledore was disappointed in him. They didn't know each other.

Tom has never disappointed anyone before. He loathed his Headmaster for changing that sentiment.

He was a kid then. And when he quickly established himself and rose to the top of the school, he shredded the weight of heavy expectation from ill-minded individuals. Dumbledore and his father included.

A muscle in his jaw ticked. The last thing he needed was Hermione, perfect Dumbledore supporter, was to tell him how he should live his life. “Maybe you should leave.”

“If you hate it here so much, if you hate me so much, why don't you leave?"

He gave her a look of disbelief. The nerve of her.

This was his home. The one his mother loved so much before she…

The same home Harry knew of. What if the siren came back and Tom was gone?

His face fell and the rage left him, replaced by emptiness.

If he disappeared now, he will always wonder if it was the right decision.

Although Hermione was a Muggleborn, people would look at him scornfully if he kicked her out. Some would look the other way, but most would scold him for not being a proper gentleman. Sending her to the Weasleys would be ideal, but interestingly enough a lot of people valued The Weasley family. And if they bad mouthed him, all the associates he's made on the muggle sympathizers side of politics would disappear.

He was trapped. He needed to find her a place to live.

The fight oozed out of him and he rolled his shoulders lazily.

This was fixable. Time. He had time.

“It doesn't matter,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I'm going to bed.”

“Tom.”

“Hermione,” he said. “I don't care what you do. Sleep on the couch, the floor, or the shower. I'm sleeping in my bed.”

She stared at him for a long time, before nodded and grabbed her suitcase. “I’ll be downstairs then.”

“Fine,” was his curt reply.

The door closed behind her and he took off his shoes, sliding underneath the covers.

He stared at the ceiling and blinked as the door reopened minutes or hours later.

The bed dipped beside him, her soft presence touching his arm. “I love you, Tom,” she whispered and he could hear the hiccups in between her sobs. “You know that don't you?”

He turned on his side, putting his back towards her. “Blow the candle out.”

The silence and darkness that followed were deafening.

They were officially over. His arm tightened around his pillow and he closed his eyes, wishing Harry never left.

∞

The sun was starting to rise.

Harry wiggled his toes in the sand, smiling at the faint pink and orange streaks in the sky. He flushed as a touch of warmth radiated down his body.

The ocean's cold water splashed against the back of his legs and he shivered, walking up the shore towards the clothes spiraled out on the sand. His muscles ached as his knees wobbled slightly. Walking was a challenge for him most of time as he often forgot walking and swimming were two different things.

Almost scowling, he dusted off his clothes and redressed. He hated the restriction of clothes and hoped humans embraced the natural form of nudity. Although he was confined, he did like how the fabric smelt and sighed in content.

A mixture of mint and rosemary clung to his skin instead of the usual sea water and sand.

There was a hint of lavender, too.

It was exactly how Tom smelt when Harry pressed his nose against the human's neck. Oh. Those soft silky curls…the small upward curve of his lips…dark blue eyes…and how could he forget the way the human's skin felt? His skin was firm, yet smooth and soft all at once. It was the first time he caressed a human without intending to kill them later on.

Instead of retracting his claws and sinking them into Tom's neck, he traced everything within his reach.

Harry blinked and stared at his knuckles. Was he imagining the pleasant ripples racing through his fingers?

A breeze passed by and his body grew cold as the burn subdued.

He tilted his head upward and closed his eyes, dread sweeping in.

Gods, the look on other siren's faces if they found out what transpired between him and Tom, he dug in his nails into his skin. The sharp pain awakened his senses.

They would label him as weak if they knew a wizard had resisted him-him. A wizard resisting a siren who is considered to be one of the strongest in decades would bring terror to the ocean.

Sirens hated wizards as they were the cause of multiple siren deaths over the last two centuries.

Sirens had come close to extinction. They used sirens as slaves or breeding tools to produce stronger wizards. Sometimes forcing sirens to breed with other creatures to create an entirely new species.

Not only did his kind have to fight to end their enslavement, but they also had to regain the respect of the ocean. Other creatures snared at them for allowing wizards to gain control.

Most sirens committed suicide or stayed on land, choosing to leave their old world behind.

Or in Harry's case, some sirens ended up like him and his mother. Bitter towards humans, especially wizards, and uncaring about the number of dead bodies they slaughtered.

Bottom line – most humans were cruel.

But why was it so hard for Harry to remember that?

He was a beacon of hope for his people. They believed he represented a new generation of strong and powerful sirens. His mother helped relieve the weight of expectation he carried.

He should be angry a wizard had broken free from his call. He was taught to be murderous by the idea of it. He should have killed Tom the moment it happened and never spared another thought like he has done many times in the past.

However, his pride wasn't hurt like he imagined it would be.

Especially, when the situation was his fault. He had been hunting in the forest and injured himself when he ran from the wizard who appeared out of thin air.

Instead of killing him, Tom carried him home and tended to his wounds. Tom was nothing like the stories of his mother told him about.

Waking up in unfamiliar territory, he was bound to feel confused. But he didn't expect to see dark blue eyes peering down at him, a small wrinkle between his eyebrows, smelling of genuine concern and curiosity.

Initially, Harry didn't like it. He didn't like how the human dressed him like he was a pet. Or, made him tea and speaking to him like Harry was a child. And he hated sitting in the wizard's home clueless to his surroundings.

Then—then something unorthodox happened.

He had started to sing, trying to persuade Tom to free his mind and hang onto Harry's every word. But somehow, Tom's mind went blank and he pulled free from the temporary trace he was placed in. 

Harry's true nature wanted to be displeased, wanted to slaughter Tom for defying him, but it almost purred in delight. Someone was finally challenging him.

And by the way, Tom's eyes widened, he had figured out what (who) Harry was and was just as confused by what transpired.

Harry was too giddy to not reach out and touch.

He had sat on Tom's lap, played with his hair, and breathed him in—trying to commit him to memory when something strange happened yet again. As he pressed his nose to Tom's throat, a wave of lust and shame hit Harry's nose, startling him.

To his delight, the human was attracted to him, but he failed to understand the shame that came with it.

Arousal and guilt were contradictions of each other. Harry didn't know to handle two unfamiliar emotions directed towards him.

Arousal and lust he was used too. Shame and guilt were… displeasing and he wanted to run away.

So when Tom was distracted by another human, he fled.

Hours later, he started to regret it. As he floated in the ocean, with only his musings, he fought the urge to go back. He wanted to do something for himself for once. He wanted to be selfish and found Tom again, and allow himself to feel.

Despite his mother's warnings about humans, Tom was warm and seemed to want to help without an ulterior motive.

His mother.

Gods, he needed to stop thinking about Tom and redirect to his attention elsewhere. His stomach twisted, chastising himself on nearly forgetting why he came on land in the first place.

He had to find his mother.

Days ago, she was kidnapped when she went for a swim near a boathouse. Her screams echoed through the water and he tried to rush to her, only to find her scent drifting further and further away…

He was disorientating, crying for her and she never responded.

A wizard had taken her. They were the only ones strong enough to battle against his mother and win.

Maybe if he found Tom again, he would still be willing to help.

Stop thinking about him.

Steadying his breath, he moved towards the village he was watching since the morning. Most humans slept until sunrise and he wasted no time walking the trails of the forest ground. He had about ten minutes to find food, track smells, and return to the water.

Something shine flashed in his peripheral vision.

He bared his teeth, a low hiss drawing from his mouth in warning.

Larger amounts of metal, he sniffed as he drew closer, oil, rubber and leather.

Fascinated, Harry moved towards the large metal with cautious, precise steps. It was a car, he realized with glee. He's only ever seen them from afar and his mother would scowl him for being distracted every time a car was on a transport ship.

He lifted a finger, wanting to touch the window. He could see his reflection like in the ocean. Bright green eyes, bony cheekbones, and black hair.

“Don't touch that.”

Harry jerked around and froze when he saw a man with a beard. A wizard, he noted, when wisps of magic floated in the air. There was something foul in the air and Harry's nose crinkled, his claws threatening to come out.

The wizard has contracted some form of a blood disease, judging by how the odor shifted every time he moved.

“What are you doing out here, kid? Underage wizards have to be accompanied by their guardian because a curfew has been set in place.”

Harry stared, trying to focus on the words being spoken to him. English was a hard language to learn and he was too embarrassed to speak it, not liking how heavy his accent sounded.

But one word he knew for sure.

Kid.

He hated being called a kid. He was always called a kid because of his looks, not his age.

He will always have a baby face, short bony limbs, and never weighing more than a small teenager. It made him bitter to watch everyone else literally grownup. And to look in the reflection of the water and see nothing about him has changed since he was twelve years old was gut-wrenching.

The human squinted his eyes at him. “Did you hear me?”

Harry bit his lip, debating with himself. He was slipping. His senses were sharper in the water than on land. If his mother was here, the human would already be dead.

Privately, he disagreed with her methods.

To him, killing someone was unnecessary unless he was threatened or forced to defend himself.

“Ah,” the human murmured, “you aren't from around here, are you?”

Harry tilted his head, sizing up the man. More silence.

“I'm Alan Mercury,” he said, offering his hand as Harry simply stared at it “…do you want to see my car? It's called a car. Most wizards have never seen one, you see. It was my grandfather's before he passed away. He gifted it to me for my sixteen birthday…”

Harry blinked. He understood snippets of the conversation, but his focus was on the human holding out his hand.

What did it mean?

Mercury dropped his hand and stepped closer. In alarm, Harry stepped back and balled his fists.

“Easy,” Mercury said, holding up his hands in the form of a surrender. “Not going to hurt you. Just want to show you my car, that's all.”

Harry sniffed the air. Curiosity and awe weaved through his nostrils.

Nothing dangerous.

Yet.

He turned to the vehicle, scanned it, and hesitated for a second, before lifting out his hand.

Coldness touched his skin and he suppressed a shiver.

He opened the car door and slid inside, sinking into the leather seats. It smelled of gas, alcohol, and trees. He paused before leaning back and smiling. So this was a car, he mused, running his fingers along the door frame.

The door slammed shut.

After a moment, Mercury walked across and sat in the driver's seat. Harry couldn't decipher his facial expression.

Something sweet lingered in the air and Harry's eyes zeroed in on the space between the two front seats. Mercury followed his motion and gestured towards a large wrapper of food.

“Take it,” Mercury pressed. “It's a treacle tart.”

Harry's stomach twisted in acknowledge, but he's never heard of it so he won't try it. He doesn't know Mercury and he was here for a mission, not a tea party.

Focus, Harry. Remember the plan.

“Tom,” Harry breathed suddenly and Mercury startled, turning to stare at him. He was properly shocked that he spoke.

“Sorry?”

“Tom,” he repeated, flicking his eyes to the road and to the steering wheel, back to Mercury.

Get it now, little human? Tell me what you know.

It worked.

Something flashed in Mercury's eyes. “There's a few Tom's I know,” he said, scratching his beard. “Thomas Riddle, the Head Auror, a real slimy prick if you ask me. There's his son,” a thoughtful look formed. “Tom Riddle Jr. who isn't any better. It's funny I didn't think you spoke English.”

Mercury's smile flattered, his grip on the steering wheel tightening.

The air shifted.

Harry went to open the car door when an audible click sounded.

His guard snapped up instantly.

“I don't think so, pretty boy,” Mercury said. “A mate of mine that lives it the same town as Riddle said he had brought someone home yesterday,” Another click sounded was made. “And you suddenly appear, falling straight into my trap.” He beamed proudly, his chest puffing. “I thought sirens were harder to catch than this...”

A thoughtful pause lingered.

“The way I see it, you have two choices.” He reached over and touched Harry's thigh, squeezing it. “You can do something special for me and after you have been a good boy, we take you to see my boss. My boss is a very powerful man and has been haunting sirens for years now. Some would see he started the enslavement of sirens.”

“Or,” Mercury smirked, his smile a touch too wide. “If you choose to be a bad boy, I take what I want, knock you out and deliver to my boss anyway. So, what shall it be, Harry?”

They did know him. His mother was in deeper trouble than anticipated.

Harry opened his mouth, but Mercury interrupted. “Don't,” his voice filled with warning. “Even try it. That singing voodoo shite you do won't work on me. Like I said my boss is a very powerful man and created special siren blockers for me to use.”

“ _You talk too much_ ,” Harry hissed and knocked Mercury's hand away from his thigh. He fed into the confusion twirling in his eyes and took the moment of shock to jump on Mercury's lap, pinning him to the seat.

Harry bared his teeth, his claws digging into Mercury's chest. “This was a trap for you, Mercury,” He spat, enjoying the way Mercury’s eyes widened at him speaking parseltongue. “Y _our mistake was kidnapping my family_ ,”

“ _Your mistake was thinking I was an ordinary siren_.”

Harry lifted up his pinkie and slashed it across Mercury's chest.

The reaction was instantaneous; blood spluttered everywhere with Mercury screaming and struggling underneath Harry's crushing strength, gasping for air.

Harry didn't spear a moment and wrapped his hands around Mercury's throat, squeezing. It took nothing for the man's neck to break and for his body to slump into the seat.

Harry maneuvered back into the passenger's seat and stared at the dead body next to him in annoyance.

The man's broke neck allowed his head to lay awkwardly on its side. The wizard lifeless eyes stared unblinkingly at Harry.

With a hiss, Harry cupped Mercury's shoulder and pushed the body forward. The dead man's body hurled through the window shield, flying into a tree and dropping on the ground with a thump.

Harry swore. Someone definitely heard that.

Quickly, he yanked the door and wiped the blood from his face.

He snapped his eyes around as he heard someone.

“Hello?” a human said. “Alan? Is everything alright?”

Yes, Harry thought as Mercury’s body laid on the ground near him, everything is fine. With a lasting glance, Harry turned and headed deeper into the forest.

He only had one place in mind.

∞

The sun was sitting like a pillow in the sky when Tom first opened his eyes. The light shone through the curtains, illuminating the room. Just like yesterday, his neck was cramped and his clothes were sticking to him uncomfortably. But this time, there was no urge to vomit.

This was the first time in months he didn't dream of red lakes, serpentine skin, or a shadowy figure towering over him.

Last night his dream consisted of a sunny beach and a small body on top of him. The sun captured the radiance of the person's skin and Tom couldn't see their face, too busy rocking his hips into pleasurable heat.

It had felt real. It had looked real. He has never dreamed of happiness or contentment before.

Yet…

Tom blinked and shook his head to clear his thoughts.

His eyes landed to the top of Hermione's bushy hair, which was resting on his shoulder, to the clock on the nightstand behind her.

7:07 AM.

The red numbers stared at him mockingly.

He sat up, stretched his limbs, and headed straight to the kitchen.

The tea he had made for Harry yesterday was still sitting on the table.

He vanished the cups, taking his thoughts with it.

Hermione joined him a few minutes later, his movements most likely jostling her from her sleep.

He kept his eyes focused on the morning's paper.

“Are we going to talk about last night?”

Tom turned a page. “What's there to talk about?” he asked calmly, “This decision has been prolonged for weeks. I want you to find a place to live within a month. Until then, it's best you sleep in the guest bedroom.”

He could feel the anger radiating from her. It was clear she thought that last night would be glossed over. “Fine,” she snapped. “I guess I'll start looking for a place today.”

“Excellent,” he said, looking up from his newspaper and flashing her a small smile. “Do you want to take a shower first or shall I?”

∞

Despite the beaming sun, the air was crisp as the wind blew harshly against his skin. Tom shivered, tucking his hands inside his pockets. Diagon Alley, per usual, was crowded and stuffed with people with loud pitched whispers. People parted when they saw him, scrambling to the side to avoid his path.

He almost smirked. Many people recognized him from Knockturn Alley it seemed. Bunch of hypocrites.

The Witch's Thumb was a new cafe with an upside down pear shape. It got crowded around this time and he loathed to think he will be seen with his father, conversing like old friends.

A tall woman stood in front of the cafe with a beaming smile and opened the door for him. "Welcome to the Witch's Thumb!"

Taking a deep breath, he entered the large café. Immediately he was greeted with the smell of coffee, sugar, and fresh pastries. His nose crinkled.

The host stood behind a podium and bestowed him with a smile. His curly hair and deep blue eyes reminded him of someone.

“Reservation?”

“Riddle.”

“Ah,” the host chuckled. “I thought you looked familiar,” his eyes twinkled. “Tom Riddle's boy, right? Truly, it's remarkable how similar you guys look. It's like he birthed you.”

Tom didn't return the smile. “Do I know you?”

The host licked his bottom lip, chewing and then releasing it. A nervous habit, perhaps.

“Initially? No,” the man smiled, his teeth shining. There was something off about his smile. The crookedness was bothering Tom more than usual. “From here or there? Maybe. You might know one of my mates.”

“It would seem so,” Tom said smoothly.

The man's optimistic persona didn't let up for a second. “Right,” he cleared his throat. “Follow me.”

Tom kept an eye on him as they walked up the stairs. The second level was warm, but not bright, everything dimmed and conservative compared to the extravagance of the first floor. It wasn't as crowded as he thought, but wasn't vacant either. Most people didn't spare him a glance, while others rose their eyebrows at his sudden appearance.

His father sat in the largest booth in the room. He was elegantly sipping his coffee and drumming his fingers on top of his newspaper.

Without waiting, he slid into his seat and clenched his hands on his lap. He feared the moment his filthy father opened his mouth, he would curse him dead.

“Is there anything I can get you, gentlemen?” The host asked, laying the menus over the table.

His father flipped another page in his paper. “Send a waiter over, Marco.”

“Of course, Head Auror. Anything else?”

“Tom?"=” his father said, not glancing in his direction.

“No, thank you. I won't be staying long.”

The edges of his father's mouth lifted. “Get him a glass of water and a coffee. Black with the sugar on the side.”

Tom grounded his jaw. He thought back to his mother and his vow to her.

It eased his nerves, but only just.

“Yes. I will see it to immediately.” The host bowed and disappeared.

His father remained silent, except for the causal page turn or sipping from his coffee.

The continued silence stretched for a few minutes.

Finally, his father placed the paper down on the table and sent him a curious expression. “Beautiful day, isn't?” Thomas said in a manner not intended to be a question. He leaned back in his seat and meeting his gaze. “How were your travels?”

My travels would have been better if I received an owl saying you died of a brain aneurysm.

“You contacted me here for a reason,” Tom said. “State your piece so I can leave.”

“Honestly, Tom,” his father scowled him, making a disapproving sound in the back of his throat. “I'm trying to have a proper conversation. There's no need to rush tea time. Can't I ask my own son about his six week travels to Albania?”

“No,” Tom said.

His father sighed. “Well, since you are in a hurry, I'll speed things along.” Effortlessly changing into the next topic. “I'm sure you've heard about a creature terrorizing Britain. Correct?”

Tom stared. He was trying to forget Harry, but it seemed the world had other ideas. “What about it?”

“Earlier this morning, Alan Mercury was found dead in the forest near his home. Witnesses say they heard a startled noise and found him lying on the forest floor minutes later.”

Tom could care less about Mercury. Yes, the loss of a wizard life was sad but besides that, the world would move on. He smoothed his face into one of remorse and sympathy.

“What does this have to do with me?”

“You had a conversation with Mercury hours prior,” With a flick of the wrist, a notepad and quill flew into his hands. “What did you guys talk about?”

“How is this relevant to his death?”

His father smiled, the dimples in cheeks deepening. “It's strange that after you two had a conversation, he died hours later.”

“Our conversations don't link me to his death.”

“Enlighten me then.”

Tom leaned back in the seat, thinking about how he was going to answer this.

A waiter walked over to them and placed a steaming cup in front of him.

“Are you guys ready to order?”

“Two breakfast specials,” his father ordered, not taking his eyes off him.

The waiter scribbled it down and walked away, ignoring the building tension in the room.

His father wasn’t going to let him leave unless he got a proper answer.

“Mercury wanted to hunt for the magical creature,” Tom shrugged. “Naturally, I declined.”

“And what type of species do you think the creature is?”

"Not my concern, is it?"

It was now his father's turn to clenched his jaw, frustration lining his shoulders.

Although Tom could tell he had more questions, Thomas gave him a nod. “Of course,” he said, a fake smile plastered on his face. “I'm not here to discuss any of my cases. In fact,” he fished out a small envelope and slid it towards Tom. “I called you here to personally hand you the invitation myself.”

Tom didn’t bother to pick up the envelope. From the fancy font and detailed engravings, he knew it was an invitation.

“Well?” his father prompted. “Are you coming to my wedding or not?”

Tom released a harsh breath, wanting to laugh. “No,” he said. “I will never go to anything you invite me to.”

His father just smiled. “This is about your mother, isn’t it?”

Tom stiffened, sending his father a warning look.

“Your mother has been dead for years,” his father continued. “She was sick, Tom. Life moves on.”

“Don’t sit here and pretend that you care about her,” Tom’s fingers dug into his knees and the table rattled. “You moved on while her body was still warm in her grave.”

“You’re right,” his father said with a nod, sipping his coffee. “I never loved your mother. Our relationship was filled with lies and deception.”

“You treated her like she was your puppet.”

“Yes,” his father mused, staring at him with a glint in his eyes. “What an ugly puppet she was.”

The cup in his father’s hands shattered.

A waitress rushed over before Tom could raise his wand. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything is wonderful, my dear.” His father smiled and flicked his wrist, making the glass and spilled coffee disappear. “Put it on my bill.”

“I’ll like my food to go,” Tom said suddenly, taking his eyes off his father and staring at the waitress.

She blinked, eyeing them suspiciously. “Okay,” she said, “I’ll be back.” Once she walked away, Tom turned to his father.

“It’s sad,” Tom said, pocketing his wand. His father wasn’t worth any of his anger. “You’re marrying someone thirty years younger than you to feel validated. To feel like you have accomplished something. Let me tell you something, old man,” his voice held a sibilant tone, “one day you’ll die just like my mother and life will move on. The girl you’re marrying now will marry someone else, she will bury you with no tears in her eyes and she’ll take everything you own. Everything you're worth and she will suck you dry. You’ll be less of a man than you are now.”

Tom stood up and dusted off his coat. “The next time you want to have a pissing contest, make sure your cock is long enough to compete.”

“Here’s your food.”

Tom turned and gave the waitress a smile. “Thank you,” he said. “Put it on his bill since he’s good for it,” he brushed his hand against his father’s shoulder, ignoring the rage saw in his blue eyes. “Until next time, _father._ ”

He left his father behind back with a smile on his face.

∞

It wasn’t until later that evening, Tom decided to walk inside the artifact exchange building with his briefcase filled with special items. He placed a cooling charm on his neck, ignoring his rising fever. 

The secretary, Margot, immediately called him over like she always did. Her blonde hair was pulled into a messy bun and her teeth too sharp for her young face.

“Margot,” he greeted, a fake smile plastered on his face.

“H-hello, Tom,” she smiled, batting her eyelashes. She seemed content to just simply watch him for the next minute.

“Is there something you needed?” he asked, keeping his tone borderline polite and flirty.

It worked.

She flushed. “I- no,” she stuttered. “Not really. I just wanted to give you warning that Mitchell isn't acting like himself today.” Margot bit her lip nervously, her eyes darting across the lobby in search for eavesdroppers.

“Oh?” Tom licked his bottom lip and Margot's eyes dropped to follow.

“Y-yes.” She nodded to the door on the left. “See for yourself.”

He gave her another insincere smile and walked over to the door, pressing his ear to it when he heard something.

“No. No. NO!” Mitchell screamed. “Green, yes, green. Pretty, so fucking pretty. Let me touch you. I promise I will be gentle.”

Tom frowned at the ramblings and entered the room without knocking.

Gavin Mitchell stood in front of the window, continuing to whisper to himself. “Yes, show me what you what. No, stop, it hurts. It hurts but it's beautiful. Why does something so bad, hurt so well. No, I meant—”

“Mr Mitchell,” Tom inserted himself easily.

The man in question turned, his eyes half closed. “Tom, my boy! How are you? Good, good, that's good. Beautiful even.” Mitchell nodded to himself, distracted again and wheeled towards the window.

Tom didn’t answer and stared. This sounded familiar.

“Sir,” he said sharply. “Where did you come from?”

Mitchell murmured some more and faced Tom again, his eyes clearer. “The Aquarium…yes…The Aquarium. I meet with…clients there.”

_Clients_ meaning all his mistresses he slept with behind his wife's back.

The Aquarium was an intimate and private setting, where creatures of all kind can go—

Tom’s breath caught, his neck prickling. “Did you see something? You said something about green?”

Mitchell frowned, his eyes growing glossy. “Green, yes, green. Beautiful…I never liked green until now. I didn't remember what happened or how I came here? Did I even meet with Sarah or no, her name is Sam. Stacey? Maybe it was—”

“Green eyes?” Tom breathed. “Was it green eyes?”

“Yes,” Mitchell perked up. “You saw it too? Wait! Where are you going? No matter. Yes…inky hair, smooth tan—”

“Summon St. Mungo’s,” he told Margot when he walked out of the room. He could feel a headache coming on and massaged his temples.

He can’t be getting sick. Not now.

“Why? Are you okay?”

Tom frowned. “I'm fine,” he said. “It’s for Mitchell.”

“Tom, I think you should take a seat.”

“I said I’m fine. I need to go to The Aquarium…”

Tom’s vision swam for a second before he felt a grip on his arm. 

  
“Please just sit down,” Margot said, a worried expression on her face. How did so move so quickly? She was just over by her desk. Tom angrily yanked his arm away, trying to scowl at her.

  
“I told y-you already...” He said stumbling over his words as it got harder to see and focus. Since when did he stutter?

  
A still moment passes when someone grabbed his arm again, making pleading sounds and he doesn’t have the strength to pull away. 

  
His knees collapse and the next thing he knows, the world goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> loooongggg overdo. Thanks for all the lovely comments! I can't believe people actually like this story :')
> 
> Also I decided to make Tom Sr a wizard because it adds something a little different.
> 
> Oh and encase your wondering, my next updates are going to be like this:  
> My tomarry big bang (spy story)  
> My tomarry halloween exchange   
> and then this story
> 
> Follow me on my tumblr for questions or anything really: honeyrosekisses

**Author's Note:**

> *crawls from hole and waves shyly* Hi. My first fanfiction and it's Tomarry, not surprising.
> 
> So...first chapter to my story. How did I do?


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